Doctor Who: The Death Pit Page 3

  As Bryony knelt beside the large, horizontal, almost-guest and wondered if she should call an ambulance or just fetch a glass of water, she heard distinctive slithery footsteps approaching. Kevin Mangold, hotel manager and biscuit thief, had arrived to make an awkward situation worse. He always did.

  ‘Miss Mailer, I hope you haven’t knocked out one of our guests…?’ Mangold snorted wetly and then waited for Bryony to appreciate what he obviously thought had been an impressive joke. She ignored him, so he stared through his dandruff-flecked glasses at the Doctor’s highly personalised choice of clothes and then asked dubiously, ‘Is he a guest…?’

  Bryony stood up, partly because she was several inches taller than Mangold and knew this annoyed him. ‘He was going to be a guest. He was telling me a story about Charles Darwin and then he just turned very pale and collapsed.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that.’ Mangold tutted at Bryony as if having people collapse in the foyer was some crazy new scheme of hers to welcome tourists. ‘Not at all. Other guests won’t like it… Perhaps if we dragged him out of the way. He could fit in the Office, or the linen cupboard…’

  ‘We can’t just put him in a cupboard. He might be ill. We need to call a… another doctor.’

  ‘Another doctor? Have you already called a doctor?’ Mangold was clearly remembering that the hotel’s official physician, Dr Porteous, was over 70 and more likely to steal towels and bread rolls than be of any help in a medical emergency.

  ‘No, no, the towels are safe… That is, I mean, he’s a doctor.’ Bryony pointed at the Doctor and saw his feet twitch as if he was a big dog dreaming of rabbits.

  ‘Well, he can’t be a very good doctor – look at him.’

  Bryony found she was feeling protective towards the now faintly groaning stranger. ‘I don’t think that really follows.’

  The Doctor flopped over onto his back, opened his eyes and declared, ‘I told them the Dymaxion House would never catch on. Far too shiny.’ Before passing out again.

  Mangold swayed on his creaking shoes and sucked his teeth. ‘Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.’ Bryony could have sworn a tiny shower of fresh dandruff rose and then fell as Mangold shook his head. ‘You’re Junior Day Receptionist. It’s your responsibility to prevent outbreaks of this kind, Miss Mailer.’

  Bryony was about to make a cutting remark about unfunny idiots and biscuits when the whining sound of the Fetch Resort’s one golf cart interrupted her and Xavier ran in, holding a tartan rug and shouting, ‘Someone is ill. Isn’t it frightful? Someone is ill.’

  A number of things then happened simultaneously: the rug was dropped over the Doctor’s legs, Mangold sneaked backwards in case he was associated with anything troublesome while any member of the Fetch family was around, Honor ran in and took Bryony’s hand and then the Doctor lurched up into a sitting position and sneezed, surprising everyone – apparently himself most of all.

  ‘Now where was I?’

  He seemed remarkably unsurprised to be on the floor, surrounded by people and partially covered in Royal Stuart tartan. But there was a clear flicker of worry at the back of his eyes. And that made Bryony worry, too. She also asked herself, ‘But how did the twins know that someone was ill?’

  *

  Out on the golf course, David Agnew was marching his irritating companion along the path that snaked through the little stretches of woodland and scrub surrounding the fairways and greens. It was pleasant here and cool because of the shade from the trees and the small and picturesque stream that ran into the course’s central lake. Agnew whistled as he marched and was in excellent spirits, but not because of his surroundings. He was, in fact, almost giggling because soon he would reach that especially deep and tricky bunker south of the 13th green and soon he would tell Mr Patterson to step down into it and practise using a sand wedge and soon after that Mr Patterson would be gone, gone, gone. The buffoon probably didn’t even have a sand wedge, but Agnew didn’t care – every time he left someone he hated in what he privately called Unlucky Bunker 13, they never came back. And he really, really hated this Patterson chap – the man was untidy, he didn’t know how to behave and he was making a joke of everything David Agnew believed should matter. And what David Agnew believed should matter was important. In fact, he’d recently become sure that what he thought was right should be the only thing that was right and should therefore govern everything worthwhile. Just lately, it had seemed clearer and clearer that if the world was run along the lines that he, and only he, could imagine for it, then it would be a much better and more orderly place.

  It seemed to Mr Agnew that making two people disappear in one day would be perfectly reasonable and convenient. Then he could have his lunch in peace, or maybe a spa session first to unwind. Why not? Keeping the world as it should be was tiring and he truly couldn’t see why he shouldn’t have some time to pamper himself now and then.

  *

  Also out on the golf course was the Doctor, now striding along in the sunshine next to the golf cart as it trundled joltingly forwards. ‘I love machines that trundle, don’t you? I think I should get one… or make one… If it would like to trundle…’ He smiled down at Bryony, who was riding in the cart with Xavier. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘How am I feeling?’ Bryony snapped. She’d been really worried about the Doctor and didn’t appreciate that her worry hadn’t been appreciated. ‘How am I feeling?’

  The Doctor nodded encouragingly, ‘Yes, that’s what I just said. But you might not remember, you’ve had a nasty shock.’

  Bryony was exasperated. She jumped out of the cart, ‘Doctor, you were the one who fainted. I’m perfectly all right.’

  Xavier patted her with sympathy. ‘You looked awfully wobbly, though, old girl.’

  And Honor, trotting along and holding the Doctor’s hand, chipped in: ‘Yes, seeing a fainted person must be a dreadful thing.’

  Bryony heard herself growl out loud with frustration before beginning, ‘You saw him being a fainted person, too. Why isn’t everyone treating you like an invalid? And the Doctor was the fainted person. He should be riding on the cart. He should be lying down.’

  The Doctor tried to calm her, ‘But I was lying down. On the floor. That’s what upset you.’ Bryony slapped his arm and he suppressed a grin, because he was indeed teasing her. ‘Oh, quite. Quite.’ Annoying Bryony – and she liked being annoyed, the Doctor could tell – was distracting him slightly from the incredible pain in his head and neck and the tiny, unaccountable gap he kept running across when he checked his recent memories. Right at the back of today’s record so far, there was a numb area. It was disturbing. There were very few things that could interfere with the Doctor’s mind, even superficially, and the technologies powerful enough to intrude on him were all both dark and extremely unpleasant. He really wouldn’t want to be around if any of them had been unleashed. Except he was around and it seemed highly likely that one of them had been unleashed. Or had unleashed itself… telepathic and psychic energies were so unpredictable and so likely to colonise other available consciousnesses and then magnify… or even to generate rudimentary sentience in awkward places… Whatever it was, it was a whole lot worse than what now seemed the friendly and welcoming possibilities of a vast telepathic clamp, squeezing the free will out of every brain it afflicted…

  Bryony turned to the Doctor and actually stamped her feet, which she hadn’t done since she was Honor’s age and which immediately made her feel foolish. ‘I’m so tired of people talking down to me, just because I’m a woman! And I’m not a Junior Day Receptionist, I’m the Only Day Receptionist! And it’s him you should be taking care of!’ She waved her arms at the Doctor and then the twins. ‘He’s scared of something and trying to hide it and I don’t think there are many things that scare him and I really…’

  Bryony stopped and immediately regretted all of this so strongly that the Doctor was dimly aware of the precise trains of thought she was moving through. He understood that no o
ne had ever wanted to hear Bryony discussing the role of women in the workplace and so even considering this now made her feel bullied and a bit stupid and as if she was weird and also she would rather be on the golf course with Mr Patterson just now because she thought he was sweet and not sexist and basically unlike almost every other Fetch Hotel golfer she’d met. Not that he really was a golfer… and…

  Bryony, unaware she was thinking really quite loudly, was pondering the fact that her last sentence had made the Doctor look genuinely worried for a second or two. She hadn’t been mistaken. He really was frightened. And the Doctor being frightened didn’t seem like good news.

  The Doctor looked at her, completely serious, and said very kindly and softly, ‘Oh, I’m incredibly scared most of the time, you know. No one with even a basic knowledge of the universe wouldn’t be – it’s a completely terrifying place. And enormous. But it’s also wonderful and lovely and more interesting than you could possibly imagine. Even than I could possibly imagine. It never lets me down. And I get to be alive in it all and to be scared and amazed and delighted and… I wouldn’t be without it.’ Then he adjusted his hat and grinned, playing the fool again. ‘I’ve been without me and before me and after me, but I wouldn’t be without the universe.’

  Bryony wondered if she was absolutely happy she now knew someone who could casually consider being without the universe.

  The Doctor turned to Honor. ‘And where are we going?’ He’d forgotten their destination again. All his thoughts seemed a bit sticky, or clumped, or hairy, like boiled sweets left in a jacket pocket.

  Honor explained again. ‘To see Grandmother and be in her house and take tea and get better. Grandmother’s teas make everyone better.’

  While Julia Fetch carefully put away her side plates and doilies, mildly under the impression that a very fine tea had just been enjoyed by a number of fascinating people, the Doctor nodded and discovered this made his brain feel as if his Lateral Interpositus Nucleus had been prodded with a sonic probe, and the only time that had actually happened he hadn’t enjoyed it one bit. Something in there definitely wasn’t as it should be. It was almost as if a new engram had been forced into his memories – a fake recollection. And the fake was there to make him believe there hadn’t already been another alteration, it had been inserted to make him forget there was a gap. If he couldn’t get control of the process, eventually it would all just heal over and then where would he be? A genius with a bit missing who couldn’t recall there was a bit missing and maybe some added ends and odds which absolutely shouldn’t be there – that would never do… Plus, he was starting to feel a little peculiar again. He put his hands in his pockets and whistled a fragment of the ‘Song of the Arcanian System Exploration Corps’, which was quite pretty and had lots of twiddly bits. Whistling twiddly bits often cheered him, although not so much today. He felt increasingly as if he wasn’t walking on grass, but on green fur, annoyed green fur.

  *

  David Agnew was chuckling and peering down at the tricky bunker south of the 13th green. At the bunker’s deepest point, the pathetic figure of Ian Patterson hacked an ancient-looking sand wedge into its blinding white surface for something like the 100th time. And for something like the 100th time his golf ball stayed exactly where it was while a great deal of hot sand went all over the place.

  ‘You’re doing incredibly well,’ Agnew called, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Not long now. ‘I will have to nip off in a minute, but I think you should stay right there and enjoy yourself.’ Agnew was waiting for the unmistakable sensation he got just before It started, this tingling in the soles of his feet and a feeling of immense sort of… Doom.

  When the Doom got too bad he just ran. He’d never looked back. He was a man who didn’t like to dwell on details – he preferred to just focus on results.

  ‘I’m not sure about that, really.’ Patterson swiped the head of his club wildly, producing another sand shower that reached as far as Agnew. ‘I seem to be getting worse. Maybe if I took up swimming, or snooker…’ He swung again and the sand wedge flew out of his hand, landing near Agnew’s ankles.

  Patterson was hot and miserable and wanted to lie under a tree with some lemonade and the memory of Bryony’s smile. ‘I’ll just climb out…’ He firmly believed that if at first you didn’t succeed, you should maybe try once more, but then give up completely if you failed again.

  ‘No!’ Agnew handed back the club rather forcefully. ‘You’re really improving.’ He smiled like someone who loathed everything he was smiling at and wanted to do it harm. ‘Practice makes perfect if you want to be a top golfer.’ He then adjusted his expression until it seemed only furious and painful. He didn’t have a face designed for happiness.

  Patterson dodged the new incoming smile by studying his sand-filled shoes. ‘But I don’t want to be a top golfer.’

  ‘Then you should practise until you do.’

  Patterson sighed and wondered if he was getting sunstroke, because he was beginning to feel unsteady. Either that or the bunker was beginning to feel unsteady, which wasn’t exactly likely. Up above him, he heard Agnew giggle and then say, ‘Wonderful. Oh, wonderful!’

  ‘I beg your pardon? I haven’t even hit it yet.’

  Agnew was suddenly furious. ‘Well, if you’re not going to make an effort, I’m leaving!’ Then he burst out laughing – which was very peculiar for someone who apparently intended to seem angry. ‘Yes! Off I go!’ And then Agnew was suddenly running – quite fast – away from the bunker and back along the path to the Fetch Hotel. ‘It’s a trip to the spa for me. You’ve left me quite exhausted, Mr Patterson.’ Agnew guffawed weirdly. ‘But don’t you worry. The fun is on its way,’ he yelled over his shoulder as he pelted into the cover of the trees. ‘Goodbye, Mr Patterson. Absolutely goodbye.’

  Ian Patterson frowned. Then he felt unsteady again. Then he wiggled his sand wedge, set it down and reached into his golf bag for his putter. When he looked at the bag he could have sworn it moved slightly. Then, as he gingerly pulled out the putter, he had the distinct impression that something hot and wet had grabbed hold of his feet.

  *

  ‘Jelly baby?’ The Doctor was feeling enormously hungry. He offered round the crumpled white paper sweet bag more out of habit than because he didn’t currently want to eat every one of them at once, followed by a big roast dinner and a full Maori hangi all to himself. His headache had got worse and also felt as if it belonged to someone else, or maybe something else. Bryony didn’t seem to want a jelly baby, but he tried encouraging her. ‘Go on. Have a purple one – they taste of Zarnith.’ It seemed that sharing a jelly baby might make him feel less lonely.

  LONELY

  The vast thought swiped in at him and, although it didn’t knock him out this time, he did stumble and he was aware that Bryony was staring at him with concern.

  ‘No need to worry,’ he told her. ‘The world’s my lobster. Honestly, I couldn’t feel better.’ Like all good youngsters on Gallifrey, the Doctor had been brought up with a strong awareness of how little other species knew about, well… anything and how they usually shouldn’t be told about, well… anything, because most of the information a Time Lord might be able to offer them would at least make them retire to the country and keep bees – should their planet have bees, or similar life forms – if not actually drive them irreversibly insane. ‘Everything’s absolutely fine.’

  Just for an instant, the Doctor contemplated what would happen if he were to become irreversibly insane.

  And then someone not very far away screamed horribly, which was a great relief, somehow. The Doctor knew exactly what to do when he heard horrible screaming – run towards it and help.

  *

  So while David Agnew slipped his safari suit into a locker at the Fetch Hotel Spa and wondered whether he should have a massage first or sit in the hydrotherapy pool, the Doctor was loping across well-groomed turf towards continuing sounds of horror and repeated dull thuds.

/>   Bryony found that she, too, was running as if this was just the right thing to do and, although she was scared silly, she was also completely exhilarated and – despite his hugely long strides – almost keeping up with the Doctor.

  ‘What are you doing? Grandmother’s this way…’ Xavier called.

  But Bryony and the Doctor left the golf cart and the bemused twins behind, coming rapidly to the top of a gentle rise. From there they were able to see the 13th green quite far off with its pretty flag and manicured grass, along with a small flight of crows lifting away out of the trees and croaking in alarm. They could also see a deep bunker with Patterson at the bottom of it. He was flailing about in the pit like someone who had just found out a great deal of new and unpleasant information about life, and he was yelling. He was screaming. In his hand he had what was left of his putter which was – as Bryony stared – both flaring and melting away with a cherry-red glow. The club head had already gone and the metal shaft was disappearing. As glowing droplets of what Bryony could only think of redness fell into the sand, they landed with odd thumps and very clearly made it shudder. Each impact was producing thin trails of gently green vapour.

  Like many humans when presented with a reality too strange to digest, she found herself saying something absurd, just to prove she was still there and could hear her own voice. So – as she continued to run forwards – she remarked, breathlessly, ‘Well, that’s unusual for this time of year.’

  The Doctor half turned his head back towards her with a huge grin. ‘Splendid. You really are. I knew you would be.’

  By the time the Doctor had reached the edge of the bunker, he had already assessed the situation, in as far as he could. There was obviously something under the bunker’s surface – something large and carnivorous, perhaps a sandmaster, which shouldn’t be anywhere near this solar system, but never mind about that. Or else something worse…